Browsed byCategory: Other Writer’s Words

Yes, there are lots of great books “on writing” (my favorite is the one that goes by that name, except capitalized; it’s by Stephen King), but I’ve found that you can get some great tips from the characters and narrators of Actual Novels. And isn’t it more fun to read a novel than a book about writing a novel? Sure it is.

I have a few of these lined up in the queue (gosh, I love writing that word), but I thought it might be fun to open this irregularly recurring blog feature with an unexpected little book. It’s called Alex and the Ironic Gentlemanand is written by Adrienne Kress. Alex is a middle grade novel about pirates and treasure and schoolteachers and a train you can never leave and an Extremely Ginormous Octopus and the Very Wicked Daughters of the Founding Fathers’ Preservation Society. It stars young Alex Morningside who is actually a ten-and-a-half-year-old girl with short hair, not a boy at all.

The book is clever and quirky-with-a-capital-Q (watch for the don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it scene featuring a pirate who uses a laptop to record the piratical business of the day). I’ve visited the author’s website and followed her tweets (that just sounds creepy) and I believe I can say with absolute most-likely-hood that she, like her novel, is also Clever and Quirky. And while Adrienne is a real life actress in addition to being a multi-published author (there’s a sequel to Alex, called Timothy and the Dragon’s Gate), she seems a very down to earth sort of person, quite unlike the Extremely Ginormous Octopus who tends to drink a lot because no one sees him as a serious Actor.

This is where we can all take a moment to offer a soft sigh of complaint that Some People are granted more than their fair share of talent and “why oh why can’t I have just a little of hers?”

There. I feel better.

Now, on to the helpful writing tips, taken directly from the novel. Feel free to apply the wisdom found here to your own writing. I trust your interpretation. After all, you’re Very Clever. (And Possibly Quirky, though I’m not sure how that applies here.)

On Imagination:

She also liked making up stories, though she wasn’t sure if the Alex in her stories was as brave as the Alex in real life. Well, it didn’t matter, because her imagination was her own, and she could do with it whatever she wanted.

On Plotting and Pacing:

“Um, could you tell me about the painting?”

“Oh, I am so glad you asked, dear,” replied the little old lady, spit flying out of her mouth. “It is of an uncharted island, somewhere far out to sea. Now I don’t know if you know about the tale of Alistair Steele and the Infamous Wigpowder…”

“Yes, I do – very well,” she said quickly. She hated it when people took too long to get to the heart of the story.

On Predictability:

Because of all their warnings, Alex half expected a cage to fall from the ceiling and trap her. But nothing happened, not even an alarm, and Alex went quickly over to the secret door.

Without waiting – as she knew well enough that, in stories, if you wait or think for too long, you get caught – she pushed the button, and the door opened.

On Showing Vs. Telling:

Philosophy is sort of silly like that. We spend all this time wondering why things exist, instead of dealing with the fact that they do.

On the Value of Interesting Words:

Coffee-table books are written to be so extremely dull that you can’t do anything but give up and look at the pictures. And you always start by reading the book, you always really, really, try, but it is no good. No matter how hard you focus, your eyes will start to glaze over, your mind will begin to wander.

On Problem-Solving:

Alex crossed the hall into the dark library. She looked out the window – again a steep drop down. She could see the town twinkling in the distance. It was so infuriating how close she was to escaping, and yet so far! There must be a way. There was always a solution to any problem. You just had to find it.

On The Importance of Setting:

Now sometimes, and I don’t know how it knows, the weather decides it wants to help with a certain situation by creating Atmosphere. At this moment, it decided to blow a gust of wind that rattled all the nonbroken windows and properly attached doors of the buildings along the bridge.

On Believably Imperfect Characters:

And what made one person good and the other one bad, anyway? In her long journey she had met good and bad people alike, people who were not pirates, but who had respectable jobs and were well-liked within their communities. And yet these same people could get away with the most reprehensible behavior. Couldn’t there be good pirates and bad pirates?

Just in time for the weekend, the last of the entries from the “First and Last” contest. (And, yeah, my short story, too.) Once again, thanks to everyone who participated. If you still haven’t read the winning entries, click here. Next week it’s back to regular blogposts, so be sure to come back to see what wisdom and nonsense I come up with.

Tanja Cilia titled her short story “Time, and Again”:

It was the best of times… no, really, the very best of times. I’d married the handsomest man on earth, and I was pregnant. We’d just moved to an old town-house, complete with antique furniture.

Idly, I twisted a knob on the bureau – and something clicked. A tiny drawer sprang open and a stack of old papers, tied with yellowing ribbon, fell out.

Hey! That’s MY handwriting. Weird.

The date on the papers is 1984. The squiggles crossing the t and the curls at the ends of the y and j are unmistakably mine. But… I never use blue ink, because it reminds me too much of the school homework I loathed so much.

In those days, no one had made concessions for my dyslexia. When, in my very last year at school, I had a teacher who understood what the matter was… it was almost too late. Almost, but not quite.

She tutored me privately and taught me how to read, from scratch. Eventually I got a job at an English-language newspaper. I soon became their top accredited journalist.

The keyboard is the logical extension of my fingers. But for private use, I always use “nice” colour inks like aqua and lilac and preach…. curiosity got the better of me, and I felt compelled to read what’s written…

April 12… The day Ms Debono drove me home after I had twisted my ankle. It was the day before my sister’s wedding, and I was the hobbling bridesmaid! Hey! The name of the teacher as given here is Miss Camilleri. But she could not drive…

I felt dizzy. I took the papers down to the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of fizzy water. I took one sip, and forgot all about it.

I turned to June 5. That was the day the brakes of our car didn’t hold, and we ran into the car in front of us. Yes… here it is, “car crash”. Oh, no! It says we were in the ‘new’ Getz Malibu… but the car had actually been dad’s old Triumph Toledo.

My husband returned from work, and walked towards the kitchen. I began to tell him what had happened – and then I glanced at him.

He was not my husband. I saw the puzzled look in his eyes. And when I looked down at the papers, the pages were blank, and… The bottle was empty.

Because I am a fan of creative symmetry, the very first entry I received will be the very last one presented here. And it’s a good one from Kelly Sauer:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday.

Maybe it isn’t really Thursday, Annie thought, dragging her aching body out of bed. Maybe it was still Wednesday night. The crash was nothing but a nightmare. The sun had to rise today. It was her wedding day.

She groped in the dark for a light switch, tripping over a pile of clothing and stumbling into the wall beside her closed door. She flipped the switch.

Oh great, the power was out. Of course. Her digital clock wasn’t glowing.

Annie rubbed a hand over tired eyes. The darkness was so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

She scrabbled through her bedside table drawer for a flashlight. She tried flipping it on. Hmm. Batteries must be dead.

Frustrated, she pitched the light across the room. It hit the alarm clock off her dresser, clattering to the floor.

The clock radio began to play.

“…80 degrees and clear for you today, with mostly sunny skies…”

Annie froze at the sound, then pitched forward, passing from one black world into another.

———-

Her cell phone was ringing. Where had she left it? Her head was spinning. She opened her eyes into darkness, pulled from unconsciousness by the urgency of the identifying tone.

“Jase?” She croaked into the mouthpiece. Why was she croaking? “I can’t see.”

“I’m coming! I’m here!” She thought her apartment door was coming down in the other room. Her ears were ringing.

Someone burst into her room, hitting her leg with the door. Then he was beside her, his touch piercing the isolating black.

“Please help,” she pleaded. “The sun didn’t come up today…”

———-

She was four months late for her wedding. The sun did rise that Thursday. One of her bridesmaids attended her in a silver frame at the front of the church.

Too many tears, Annie thought, leaning heavily on her father’s arm for her walk into Jase’s arms. But she could see them. The tears. The camera flash. Those who loved them. The look on Jase’s face. The tie he was wearing. She couldn’t quite see the color yet.

She stepped toward him. After weeks of blackness, she’d forgotten what colors she’d chosen for her wedding.

Sunlight streamed through cathedral windows across the aisle, bathing Jase in light, drawing her smile.

Ah. She chose the blue one after all.

And, finally, because I thought it would be fun if I had to write a story, too, I asked you to suggest first and last sentences for my own short story challenge. I chose “The striped cat glared at me” for the first line and “The rain washed it all away” for the last line.

Here it is.

The striped cat glared at me.

Horatio.

That was his name.

He was sitting in a circle of sunlight on the carpet, a statue in a spotlight.

“You want me to feed the cat?” I’d asked.

“Yes, if you would,” she’d said. “You do know the cat has a name, right?”

“Of course.”

“And…?”

“And I prefer to call him ‘cat.’”

She didn’t say anything. But I saw disappointment in the turn of her lips.

***

The next day I was sitting on her couch. She was beside me, smelling of cinnamon and sipping a glass of merlot, her body humming along with Sia’s “Breathe Me.”

We’d been friends for a long time. Shoulder-crying friends. Best friends. But something turned in me and before I could deny it, I realized I was in love with her.

That’s exactly when Horatio jumped onto her lap. Somehow, she kept from spilling the wine. I think she laughed.

I said words I wish I hadn’t. Words that weren’t true. Yet out they came, pressed by panic into an uncertain moment where they could do the most damage.

“I hate that stupid cat,” I said.

She hugged Horatio tighter and he purred.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean that. I love the stupid cat.”

“He has a name,” she said. Then she drank the rest of her wine.

***

After a week without words, she invited me over to watch a movie. Breakfast at Tiffanys. Not our first choice. But we were lazy. Do you know how it ends? The taxi ride. The cat. The engagement ring tossed on Holly’s lap. And all the while it’s raining and you’re wondering if she is going to give up a chance to be with the man who loves her.

“Where’s the cat” Holly asks, frantic.

“I don’t know,” says Paul.

And that’s exactly what I was thinking. I don’t know. Our relationship was at a crossroads. Did she see it too? I was afraid to ask.

As if cued by the closing credits, the night sky began sheeting water against her living room window. When thunder boomed Horatio leaped onto her lap.

“Horatio,” I said, and it was a sigh.

She turned to me, smiling. But this was a new smile. One that would lead to a kiss.

Suddenly, there was no more uncertainty.

The rain washed it all away.

Some of you might be disappointed I didn’t write a science fiction or fantasy story. But look closer. See the ending? It is a fantasy after all.

My poorly-disguised “original content hiatus” is nearly at an end, but not yet. Today, more entries from the “First and Last” contest for you to enjoy. For those of you who haven’t yet read the winning entries, click here.

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. This came as no surprise to the girl; she had been able to control the stars since quickening in her mother’s womb. The Destroyers were rapturous with the knowledge and each wanted the girl’s power for their own.

The girl’s mother, covetous in her own right, arranged fostering by The Destroyers’ mages – The Arcane Ones. Here, the girl learned of the delicate balance among the universe; how if one planet fell, all others were doomed. They imparted this knowledge to frighten her.

It empowered her.

Her powers blossomed under The Arcane Ones’ careful guidance, surpassing expectations of all. The eve she lost her maidenhead, she held the moon in her thrall until she and her lover were spent. The moon sighed in pleasure and disappeared for a fortnight.

Her lover was enamored of her talents and lavished her with baubles that were so prismatic in their beauty; they reminded the girl of the universe. She named them in accordance of her lessons.

Crimson. Saffron. Cerulean.

After their naming, the jewels rose and transformed before the girl and her lover. Each danced amid the elements they called forth with their lovemaking. Colors tattooed their bodies, an indelible mark of their union.

The girl’s infatuation with the boy was not in The Destroyer’s plans, and the boy foresaw his death in their eyes. The girl, clever as she was, did not have The Sight, not like he. For this, he sent his prayers up to The Deity. He asked for strength to carry his plan forward and that the girl would endure.

She was their salvation.

Unaware, the girl slept on and her lover chanted over her magic jewels. He sealed his life force in blue and death to his adversaries in yellow. He saved red for the destruction of all. Then, with his hand over her already ripened womb, he blanketed her with his parting wish.

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday, the day they sacrificed her lover, because it was her will. Darkness remained while her soul warred with half-imagined murmurings.

Murder was at her fingertips.

The babe stirred inside her.

She chose the blue one after all.

Here’s Jon Freestone’s creative entry:

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where she’d left her wallet. That distraction was just enough to let her fly. Sam loved the H2G2 series but never thought you could really fly by forgetting to hit the ground.

Sam’s favorite dreams were the flying dreams, she even learned how to lucid dream to be able to control her dreams. Sam soared over the neighborhood, this was way better then any of her dreams.

The hardest part was deciding where to go. Fly home, buzz her boy friends house, or go pick up the wallet. While trying to decide Sam saw a red blinking light to her right and blue light strait ahead.

Why go home, I just want to fly, she thought. Sam started flying between the flashing lights. In the end it wasn’t too hard to decide which light to head for, after all her rival school’s colors were red.

So turning to the left, just to see what would happen, She chose the blue one after all.

Adrian Firth titled his creepy entry, “The Day of Screams”:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Dense fog hid the sky, hanging low across rooftops and power lines, smothering houses and decapitating trees. Diffused light brightened the world gradually, like God was turning a dimmer switch. More likely it was the Devil. Oblivious, I eased my Toyota down the driveway in the half-light.

At the letterbox, I leaned out and opened the lid to find nothing but real estate flyers. Cursing the paperboy, I sat trying to get something on the radio, anything at all. The neighbour’s cat chose that moment to stroll into the street.

Pam Jameson’s black moggy often sat in the road, usually early morning and sometimes at dusk, as if it owned the world. As if it were invulnerable. Top of the food chain. We used to think that way too.

A funnel of cloud spiralled from the sky to the white line in the centre of the road. It oscillated like a miniature twister. From the wobbling point, a smoky tendril formed and snaked toward the cat like a ghostly boa constrictor, engulfing the animal.

Cats can scream like nothing on earth. I still had a hand on the radio band selector.

Ahead of me, up in the fog, a massive shape drifted across the sky. Something like a building-sized shark. It seemed to broadcast fear. I sat motionless and cold until it left. Then I put the car in reverse.

I ran from the carport to the house. Inside, I locked the door and went to the television. No picture. No cellphone coverage. No dial tone. You are not connected to the Internet.

That was Thursday. The day of screams. The power is out, and the water doesn’t run now. The fog wraps all sides of the house, all the way to the windows. I keep the curtains drawn. I cower and cry and piss myself when I feel them overhead.

This is how it ends for us. Not nuclear war, economic collapse, or slow drowning in a rising sea. Not plague, asteroid strike, or a broken ecosystem. It finishes the way we have always feared, since the time we huddled around fires in smokey caves.

Monsters.

And while Robyn D. Stone’s story didn’t open with one of the assigned first lines, it’s does end with one:

If only he could see the future. He would know it would work out. Losing his father was surely the hardest thing he had ever been through in his life. Thinking of him now made him happy and sad at the same time. Happy for all the times they had been able to share. Sad for all the times lost.

Looking down at his own son dressed in his Sunday best, his heart was so full of pain. So full of pride. Would his son remember his grandfather? Would he know how much he loved him? How proud he was the day he was born? Steven wondered what words he could use to make sure this six year old little boy knew all the things his grandfather would have wanted him to know.

With his tie slightly askew and hair more than slightly rumpled, he looked so much like Steven had when he was his age. Everyone had been saying the same thing since the accident. Family from faraway places and out of town guests who had not seen Taylor since he was a baby were all amazed at the strong family resemblance. Strong jaw. Dark eyes. Heavy bangs. It was all there. The strong family traits handed down from generation to generation.

Pushing those bangs to the side, Taylor looked up with a sideways glance and gave Steven the signature lopsided smile. What was he thinking? Did any of this make sense to him? Steven had tried explaining it all to him before the services, but how much would a six-year old really grasp. He was having trouble grasping it all himself.

The wind began blowing softly, which sure helped on this hot August afternoon. Southern heat in August was something you could always count on, but his father had been very firm in not wanting a major production for his funeral services. He was specific in saying graveside services only. They had honored his wishes.

As the last trumpet sounded, he gave Taylor a tight hug and watched him walk away and get in the car with Julia, his ex-wife. He reached for his pocket and felt inside, it was still there. But, he knew, the bottle was empty.

Just a couple more short stories to go and you’ll have seen ’em all. Pretty good stuff, don’t you think?

I’m already planning the next contest, and I think you’ll like it. Much less work, but still loads of fun. And, no, I’m not saying anything else about it until September.

Will this madness ever end? Um… yeah, it will. On Friday. But today? More of your creative writing. And for those of you who missed it earlier, here’s yet another re-post from the vast (ie: sometime in the past three months) archives of noveldoctor.com, a handy little guide to What Your Editor Is Thinking.

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where he’d left his wallet. When the elevator reached the bottom, Sam urgently jammed in his security card and pushed the button for the penthouse. As the elevator went back up, he took a mental inventory.

In the gym bag that he carried was $20,000 in cash. In his pocket were Cubano cigars – a token of appreciation for The Man; he had a feeling they might meet again. Sam had done projects like this before and this was a record – three months from start to finish. The final installment necessary to keep The Man on board was happening today. Sam was anxious to get this deal finished and enjoy the fruits of his labors. His lovely Sylvia and a bottle of cognac would be waiting for him this evening.

As the elevator doors opened, Sam walked through the living room, past the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Hudson River and into the bathroom where he plucked his wallet from the counter. As he returned to the waiting elevator and pushed the button, Sam slid the wallet into his back pocket. The elevator descended once again.

Forgetting his wallet would have been a deal-breaker. It held the membership cards for the gym which were, inexplicably, critical incentives for The Man. They had been the most difficult to arrange because of the potential for an incriminating paper trail.

Sam knew Vincent would be pleased with his work. Vincent was short on details, but Sam knew two things for sure – his money was green and he was generous with benefits like the keys to his luxurious penthouse. Sam also knew Vincent had something to do with the developer planning the project in the northwest section of town – 2,000 apartment units with retail space.

It was an easy job – partly because of The Man himself and partly because Sam’s competition was so inconsequential: citizens circulating petitions, sending letters to the editor, talking to the press. Plus, their issues were trivial – congestion, flooding and overcrowded schools didn’t matter to Sam.

As the elevator doors swept open, Sam strode across the lobby and through the outside door. There was an elderly woman waiting to come in through the door – her arms full of grocery bags. Sam glanced at the woman and kept walking, letting the door fall closed as the woman’s face reddened with indignation. She yelled after him, “You can’t even hold the door open for a lady? Men like you are monsters! Monsters!”

Josh Poirier used the same first and last lines and came up with this story:

Somewhere between the roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where he’d left his wallet. As he tumbled head over heels for what seemed an eternity his mind raced back to the reason he was in this predicament.

The day started like any other, he woke up, showered, shaved, ate a quick breakfast, kissed his wife, hugged his two sons, who giggled mischievously, and hurried off to work, a bit late, which was his normal routine. It was the commute to work where his troubles began. Speeding down the freeway, he didn’t notice the state trooper until it pulled up behind him and with sirens blaring and lights flashing dizzily, motioned for him to pull over. He complied with the request and turned the wheel slightly to begin moving to the shoulder, stopping on the overpass.

He opened the glove compartment door and pulled out his registration, ignoring the cold-steel pistol that lay beside it. Reaching in his pocket he was surprised to not find his wallet sitting comfortably in its normal location. He began searching frantically through the cabin of the car. It was nowhere to be found. He then thought about the two kilos of cocaine hidden in the backseat and realized that without his license the car was probably going to be searched. He couldn’t afford to go to jail. So he opened the car door and ran.

He paid no attention to the shouts behind him to stop as he vaulted over the guard rail and landed on the rooftop of one of the buildings situated under the overpass. He knew that he must have looked guilty now and began jumping from rooftop to rooftop to escape. He looked back to see if he was being followed and slipped off the edge and fell.

In the brief moments of clarity that is sometimes afforded while hurtling towards waiting, certain death. Sam thought about where his wallet could be and remembered he had left it on the kitchen table. A brief flash reminded him that through the window as he left his two sons seemed to be dividing money, probably stolen from his wallet. His sons were growing up to be just like their old man.

He muttered under his breath, just before his head met his feet, “Those….Little….Monsters….”

Here’s Erika Frank’s story:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. The roar of the thunder and the bright lightning radiated off the cliffs outside. The jagged light washed over the walls of Diana’s bedroom, jarring her out of a deep sleep. She glanced at the dim red glow of her clock, which read 6:02 AM. She would have preferred to have slept in.

She wouldn’t be going into her office today. That was already planned. Not that she had to clear her schedule or anything. She’d been losing a steady stream of clients with each pound she put on. Not many people wanted to work with a chunky nutritionist.

She didn’t want to get out bed just yet, but she needed to use the bathroom. She gently pulled her feet up from the covers, trying not to disturb the pile of Persian kitty at the base of her bed. “Felicity will be just fine. She has at least two weeks worth of food and water in her jumbo sized feeders.”

The floor creaked with each step to the bathroom. A noisy reminder of the coastal dampness rotting anything made of wood. The night-light glowed with blue intensity making her reflection in the mirror even paler than normal. Very ethereal and ghost like. She stopped and stared. She liked her reflection like this. It was even better than being lit by candlelight. No lines showed around her eyes and no gray at her temples. Yes, this was a good picture to hold on to in her mind.

Into the kitchen she shuffled, keeping the lights off. She was enjoying the darkness and all the shadows of her house. She gathered a package of Oreo’s off the counter and the sapphire blue bottle of gin and headed back to her room. As she crawled back into bed she hit the play button on the controls. There is no way of truly knowing how many times she watched Titanic. It has lived in the dvd player since her divorce two years ago. This movie and anything Nabisco have been her companions since that nightmare. She hugged her bag of cookies to her chest and watched. She took an occasional drink from her blue bottle on the bedside table. There was also another bottle. A brown prescription bottle on the bedside table. The bottle was empty.

And the last of today’s entries (which uses all three last lines) is from Ellen Shahan:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. For Holly Graves, it didn’t rise on Friday or Saturday either. It wasn’t till Sunday that the young woman was able to drag her lumbering bones out of bed and part the shades that had so kindly cocooned her in darkness. She was thirsty and the taste in her mouth simply had to be addressed.

In the uncharitable light of the bathroom, Holly squinted at herself in the mirror — the makeup she hadn’t removed, the hair that might have made a proper nest for swallows. It took effort just to squeeze toothpaste out of the tube. Pressing the toothbrush to her teeth, she caught sight of her red fingernails, so recently done — a fresh affront, incongruous, the color of blood. Yet there was no blood. There was only ash. What came after.

She’d thought she could brave the world for an hour or two, maybe order in a pizza and some lemonade — she was so thirsty — but now she was unsure. Perhaps she’d overshot the mark, given herself more to do than could be managed. Maybe what she really wanted was to sink back into sleep, another long, dreamless sleep that blotted out all thought, all hope, all memory or yearning. A sleep borne of lovely pink pills, as harmless, as gentle, as roses bereft of thorns. She liked them ever so much better than the blue ones a friend had given her. The blue ones were monsters with prickly spines and a devilish afterlife.

Holly poured herself a glass of water. Only minutes into the day, and already she was done with it. She went to her bedside for more of the balm that would ease her suffering, but the lovely pink darlings had vanished. She’d taken them all. The bottle was empty.

She chose the blue ones after all.

Monsters.

Tomorrow? Yup. A few more. And then the last ones on Friday (including mine, as promised).

Thanks for visiting. (And thanks again to all the folks who took the time to enter the contest.)

Yes. More of your entries to read and enjoy. And if that’s not enough for you, consider this silly old post on Fiction Trends of the Future! (This re-post is offered in honor of “The Time Traveler’s Wife” movie, which opens Friday and is based on the book, a book so good I was still able to fall in love with it even though when I read it I was in the middle of a terribly deep depression brought on by a relational meltdown of epic proportions. Oh to write a novel half as good as Audrey’s debut.)

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Or on Friday, or on Saturday. On Sunday, the day her body began to stiffen and turn cold, the sun shone. While she lay, dying, the clouds had covered the sky, and lighting had flashed, thunder calling her.

I stared at the body, trying to see the mother I knew. She looked the same, yet in another way, she was no longer the woman who had bore me, her middle son, forty-two years ago.

I heard my father shuffle back into the room, my eldest sister’s voice relentless in his ear. We had been waiting fourteen hours for them to remove the body.

Someone had come with coffee and a box of muffins that my youngest brother had placed on our dead mother’s leg. Eat, he had said. I took the box and moved it to the little table that had held her tray for the past seven weeks she had been in palliative care. I saw him pick up a muffin and bite half of it. My stomach turned, and I swallowed bile. In this way, we waited.

“They are ready,” my sister said. “But, she will not be moved until we are all here.”

The six of us, the children, had scattered when the first bird began to sing. My two sisters had uncoiled themselves from her. One had her hands under our mother’s breast, the other under her thighs.

“What are you doing?” I had asked them.

“She is still warm here,” the elder one had answered.

Suddenly, the room was full, my siblings moving about. Within minutes two attendants arrived, but they were pushed out of the way.

“We will do it,” said my eldest brother, the second born from her.

At the doors marked MORGUE, the eldest, my sister who had her hands nestled under our mother’s breasts, collapsed.

“No,” my father spoke. “She would not want this.”

My sister rose, resumed her spot, and we pushed through the doors. I knew each of us wondered how we could leave her; she had been so scared.

“I will stay,” I said.

The attendants looked at each other, then at all of us, and shrugged.

I was alone, and I reached for the bottle water I had placed on the floor, next to my chair. My lips were dry, and my throat ached. The bottle was empty.

‘It was the best of times… no, really, the very best of times. I can’t help but think if only… No but we must look to the future now.’ Louise went to stand up.

‘Oh, Aunt Louise, if you don’t tell me about those times, how will I ever know anything about Mother?’ Sophie, nearing adulthood innocently yearned to know more.

‘The best of times…’ she urged.

‘Yes, when your mother and I were in our early 20’s,’ Louise sighed.

‘What made it the best of times, Aunt Louise?’ Sophie asked.

‘Freedom! We were free and easy and loved it. We did what we wanted.’ Louise turned to Sophie and said in a low voice. ‘But maybe being so easy wasn’t the best.’

‘Tell me more, Aunt Louise,’ Sophie curled her knees in to her chest looking small and childlike.

‘Your mum had just finished her degree, we were pumped for a big night. Sophie, you’re nearly 17, I’m going to tell you this so hopefully you will learn not only about your mum, but so you won’t make the same mistakes.

‘But you said it was the best of times,’ Sophie was a little lost.

‘Yes, well I suppose that’s how we used to think. Looking back, all the hangovers, memory loss, men – many men…’

‘Are you saying, that my mother… many men?’ Sophie blushed.

‘I’m afraid so, Soph, that’s why you’ve never met your father. I don’t believe your mum worked out which one it was, so she never told any of them about you,’ Louise paused for a moment, then rushed on. ‘It was just after your second birthday, your mum rang me and said “Louise lets got out like we used to.” She drank a lot before we went out.’

‘I went to the bar to get more beers while your mum was on the dance floor. Stories about spiked drinks were all over the papers and it crossed my mind your mum had left her drink at the table while I carried mine to the dance floor. I searched for her on the dance floor but found her just off to the side, lying on the floor. It was too late. I looked to our table. Her drink was spiked. The bottle was empty.’

Holly Tupper, who is 15 years old, entered this clever story. (I think you’ll agree Holly is well on her way to becoming a published writer.)

“The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Everyone was bumping into each other because no one could see anything! That’s what Alex said happened after he ate your cooking, Sash! What is this stuff anyway?” My little brother, Josh, eyed the repulsive yellow lump on his plate.

I shot him a poisonous glare. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” A skeptical frown crossed his face, so I added, “You like macaroni and cheese.”

Josh wrinkled his nose. “Not when it looks like that.”

I glanced at the pathetic pile of watery, half cooked macaroni and clumps of dry cheese sauce and sighed.

“Just eat it.”

I slumped onto a chair next to Josh. So much for my cooking skills. Only my second time babysitting, and not only had I locked myself out of the house while taking out the trash and had had to run over to the neighbor’s to phone Mom to find out where the spare key was, but now I had made a complete mess of dinner.

And it was macaroni and cheese! How hard is it to cook macaroni and cheese?

I brought a forkful of macaroni to my mouth. An unusual odor filled my nose––kind of like the smell you get when you burn oil. I instantly burst into a fit of coughing. I grabbed my cup and gulped down the water, ridding my mouth of the nasty taste.

Josh’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.

“No way am I eating that!”

“Forget it!” With one artful sweep, I dumped the macaroni into the trash can. “We’re ordering pizza!”

Josh flashed me a mischievous grin. “Oh, and Alex said that after he ate your food, his house was stormed by big, scary, green…”

I threw my head into my hands.

“…monsters.”

Remember that I told you to keep your eyes peeled for a story by Andi Newton? Here it is:

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where he’d left his wallet.

“Ah, crap.” Stepping off the landing, he rode the sliding ladder the rest of the way down, one foot on a rusty rung, the other stepping onto asphalt as soon as the ladder stopped.

“Find it?” Janowski asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, but I know where it is.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Maddigan’s.”

Janowski’s shoulders sagged. “Any idea where she is?”

Sam switched the blackout monocle from his left eye to his right and scanned the skyline. The silver ring of his exposed eye flicked in mechanical stops from one building to the next.

“There,” he said, pointing at a brick building sporting a neon “Beckman’s Soda” sign.

Janowski sighed and, pulling the gun from his holster, followed Sam down the street.

#

“It’s of no use to you, Maddigan.”

The woman opposite him turned Sam’s wallet in slow circles with nicotine-yellowed fingernails. A corner caught her hair, and it wrapped in brittle layers around the leather.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but it’s of importance to you, and that gives it value.”

“And that value would be?”

“Your eyes.”

“You would blind me, Maddigan?”

Maddigan shrugged. “They say children have their parents’ eyes, and parents swear by their children’s. I have no children, but if I had your eyes I’d have something to swear on.”

Sam watched Maddigan’s hair wrap around the wallet. He could let her keep it, find some other way…

“I’ll let you take one.”

Maddigan curled her hand around the wallet. “Which one?”

Slipping the blackout monocle off, Sam leaned forward. “Your choice.”

Women always told Sam that his right eye was a nice shade of blue when it wasn’t bloodshot, but the valuable one, of course, the useful one was the left. Titanium in iron, fitted with the latest tech. Maddigan didn’t even have to replace one of her own with it. That just made it portable. Finding a new one wouldn’t be easy, but the wallet was worth it.

Sam jerked backward as Maddigan lunged forward and dug fingernails into his eye socket. Grinning, she held her hand open, palm up, for him to see, but Sam didn’t need to look to know what she’d done. He knew already, in the blood that smeared his cheek and the gray that edged his vision.

She chose the blue one after all.

And there you have it. Four more clever entries in the “First and Last” contest. See why it’s so hard to choose a winner?

As promised, below are a few of the entries I received in the “First and Last” contest. If you haven’t yet read the winning entries, click here.

Also, this might be a good time to read one of my older, educational posts. Like this one on subjectivity, perhaps. Okay, you caught me. I’m trying to distract you from the fact that I’m not writing original posts this week. Guilty as charged. Except… theparagraph you’re reading now is All New Material. Plus, you haven’t seen the short stories anywhere else. So I think I’m off the hook. And anyway, I have to write a short story because I promised I would. (Maybe I’ll post that on Friday. Maybe.)

Righty, right then. On to the first batch of contest entries.

Here’s a contest entry from Andrea Crain:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Why? Well, Kyla is a very beautiful girl, and therefore Kris was always trying to impress her. I was eavesdropping Wednesday night. “I’ll bring you the moon and stars and forge them into a necklace for your beautiful throat! I’ll pull the sun from the sky and bottle the sunshine so you’ll never endure a gloomy day again!”

Big words. Of course, Kyla scoffed. But Kris had a few tricks up his sleeve. He pulled out a golden bottle and a silver hammer, and as Kyla watched with a little smirk on her face, he reached up and tapped down the moon with the hammer and started smithing. He set in a few stars as diamonds. It was a sight!

The necklace was gorgeous. But it was so dense that nothing could escape its gravity, not even the sunlight, not even Kyla. So the sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Kris sat on a distant planet, crying, the bottle at his feet. The bottle was empty.

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where he’d left his wallet. He stopped and peered down the darkened alley, listening carefully. Then he turned, clambering back up the stairs, cringing at the metallic resonance of his steps.

Upon reaching the roof, he knelt down, breathlessly searching through the dark. There it was, perched precariously near the ledge. He grabbed it and ran back to the stairs, hastily shoving the wallet into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans.

Sam recklessly descended the steps, three at a time, but when his feet hit the ground, he didn’t run. Instead, he crept along the brick wall to the edge of the building. Hiding in the shadows, he peered around the corner, afraid that his pounding heart might give him away.

The street was deserted except for a small crowd forming about twenty feet away. He spotted something on the sidewalk between the crowd and himself. Making certain that nobody was looking, he darted out to get it and returned to the shadows before anyone could notice.

The sound of sirens blasted in the distance. He bolted through the alley, past the fire escape, pausing at the end to check for witnesses. He saw only a few people who seemed to be doing some late night window shopping. He nonchalantly stepped into the light, walking the short distance to his tan sedan. He breathed a sigh of relief after closing the door and starting the engine, thus blocking out the growing wail of the sirens.

Pulling out of the parking space, Sam wondered which way to go. He waited at a red light, watching as two police cars sped by with their blue lights flashing. He stole a glance at the broken camera in the passenger seat. He may not have gotten what he’d come for, but at least he’d escaped with his life. Now, if only he could get out of town.

The light turned green and Sam decided to go straight, heading toward the interstate. After pulling safely into the fast lane, he set the cruise control. Except for a few truckers and night owls, the road was his. Searching for comfort, he reached into the glove compartment and groaned. The bottle was empty.

Richard Fuller titled his entry, “Box”:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Not because there wasn’t a sun. It just seemed to be stuck. Undoubtedly, it shone brightly somewhere. After all, Dora’s night was someone else’s day. Her stuck Thursday was someone else’s stuck Friday.

She was pretty sure it was her fault.

It began with that weird chemistry set she found at the Fantasy Convention. Dora hadn’t planned to go. She thought fantasy fans were stupid, but cute Josh was one and he’d talked her into going. Soon bored, she’d left him happily browsing among the comic books. Then she noticed a booth in a dark corner with a sign that read, “Demon Science.” She didn’t believe in demons but she liked science, so she went over for a closer look.

Among the usual cheesy amulets and spell books was a black metal box with red lettering that said, “ChemMystery: When Stink Bombs Aren’t Enough.” Because chemistry was Dora’s favorite subject, and because she agreed that stink bombs often weren’t enough, she asked the robed and hooded character behind the counter if she could look inside the box. In a rasping voice, he/she replied, “You don’t look inside it. It looks inside you to see if you are the One.”

“Okay, Elf Wizard or whatever the hell you’re supposed to be, can I at least take a closer look at it?”

He/she handed Dora the box. It vibrated in her hands and grew very hot. The world blurred and then disappeared. She dreamed of another life, another box.

She awoke in her room. Outside, nothing moved, not the birds frozen in mid-flight, not the traffic on the street. Next to her was the box. She must have opened it, because a seething, red-tinged cloud of blackness was pouring out, howling through her window and into the still night.

When it was gone, Dora looked in her box and saw a clear container, a stopper, and a singed piece of parchment. She examined each in turn. The stopper smelled of sulfur and death. The parchment bore sanguine script that read, “Thanks. Good to see you again.”

It was the best of times… no, really, the very best of times. But that was last week. Now, as Samantha looked in the full-length mirror, holding the navy blue shirt-waist dress against her slim body, all she could see were the gray shadows under her eyes and her sagging shoulders. Her chestnut hair was slicked back into a neat bun but several unruly locks poked out around her ears. The gray sweat suit she wore was rumpled – she wasn’t sure how many days she had worn it.

“This navy blue one is too somber – I look like I’m going to a funeral,” she thought. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She felt like she was preparing for a funeral, actually – the funeral for her old, carefree life. Opening her eyes, she put the navy blue dress down on the bed and shuffled to the closet. She emerged with a sexy ruby-red dress – the one she had worn to her husband’s inauguration last month. Everybody had said they looked like John and Jacquelyn Kennedy.

Now, holding the red dress up against her, she felt the full weight of what had happened and her knees started to buckle. She sat on the floor and struggled to hold back the sobs. Remembering how happy they were that day made her depression – it had set in since her husband’s arrest one week ago – that much deeper. Harold, his lawyer, had of course taken care of arranging bail, but those few hours after she found out about the arrest were like a horror film on continuous play in her mind. The tight knot in her stomach was beginning to convince her that she would never feel normal again.

Of course he had denied everything. He came home from the courthouse and launched into explanations about how the FBI had made a mistake – he had been framed. She wanted to believe him but wasn’t sure whether she could. Spending the week barricaded in her house with protesters outside around the clock was not making his story any more believable.

So today’s press conference announcing his resignation would mark the official end of their charmed lives. After today, all attention would be on the trial. She just wasn’t sure she would have the strength for any of it.

“Samantha! We need to leave in twenty minutes!” he shouted to her from downstairs.

“OK – I’ll be down soon,” she replied as she got up from the floor. Samantha smoothed on her makeup, slipped into the dress, stepped into her pumps and made her way carefully down the stairs. She chose the blue one after all.

Just a reminder about tomorrow’s contest deadline. Yup. That’s all I’m giving you today. Well, that and this link to an MSNBC article on why we get lost in a good book. Feel free to use the comments section to tell me what you think.

Tomorrow I’ll have a typical Friday grab-bag of random tidbits. Then next week, it’s back to regular blogposts packed with clever wisdom and snarky humor.

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Okay, here's the deal. This is a blog about writing fiction. I'll be updating it with wisdom and nonsense whenever I feel like it, muse and caffeine permitting. For more info about me, read the Stephen Who? page.

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